Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

Four weeks ago, on a sunny Sunday morning, I watched my
24-year-old son play football (soccer) for his local pub team. It had been a
while since I last attended one of Ryan’s matches. The experience moved me in a
way I had not expected.

Throughout his childhood, I would routinely take him to his
junior football games, stand on the side line shouting words of encouragement,
and deliver a sweaty, mud-splattered boy to the safety of home. During the
return journey we’d discuss the match and his performance, analysing his
strengths and weaknesses. We’d share our delight about a thunderous tackle and a
defence-splitting pass. We’d discuss a dubious refereeing decision or the
histrionic behaviour of the opposition’s manager. Often I would nag him about
trailing sludge into my car and sullying the upholstery, and he’d urge me to
“chill out”.

Ryan is now over six-feet tall, with a build like a
spinach-fuelled Popeye. In an entertaining game, his pub team defeated their
local rivals, 4 – 2. My son impressed in the central midfield area, spraying
precision passes around the field with his cultured left foot – an asset (I
insist) that he inherited from his father. Ryan scored one goal, and created
two others.

At the end of the game, I bristled with pride as I marched
onto the pitch to congratulate him.

“Well played son; that was a great performance.”

“Cheers, dad” he replied.

And then he left with his team-mates, heading for the pub to
celebrate their victory with some post-match beers and sandwiches, an enjoyable
pilgrimage I had made multiple times during my football-playing days.

I returned to my car, alone. As I set off for home, a
profound emptiness engulfed me. A ridiculous voice in my head screamed, “He
should be with me!” The voice of reason retorted, “He’s crossed the threshold
into adulthood; he no longer requires your chaperone.” My vision blurred as I
struggled to see through a watery haze. I pulled over to the side of the road.
The pollen count must have been high.

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

I’m at an age when I occasionally engage in life reviews,
reflecting on my 56 years of meandering while trying to make sense of it all.
In particular, I’ve ruminated on those times – rather more than you might think
– where my actions have endangered life, either my own or that of others. One
example of the former took place in the bathroom of my parents’ home 46 years
ago.

As a 10 years old, I displayed an inquisitive mind; “why?”,
“how?” and “what if?” were recurrent questions when faced with new situations
or novel snippets of information. The brightly coloured bottles of bleach and toilet
cleaners that lurked behind our lavatory had long since attracted my attention,
particular that skull-and- crossbones warning about toxicity. So one afternoon,
while I was home alone, I decided to investigate what all the fuss was about.

I picked up the “Domestic Thick Bleach” and “Ajax Powder”
and proceeded to read the warnings on the two toilet cleaners:

Do not ingest – I
looked up “ingest” in my pocket dictionary. Eating or drinking toilet cleaner!
Did they think we’re all stupid or something?

Avoid contact with the
skin and eyes – Fair enough; even as a young boy, I assumed that spillage
on bodily parts might sting.

If accidentally
swallowed, contact a doctor as a matter of urgency – I did wonder whether
anyone would still have the power of speech to call emergency services in such
a scenario.

Do not, under any
circumstances, mix with other toilet cleaners – This warning intrigued me,
triggering all my “Why?” and “What if?” queries. Frustratingly, no explanation
was offered on the bottles. The labels’ failure to inform, along with my
emerging interest in science, conspired to motivate me to conduct an in-house
chemistry experiment.

I inserted the plastic plug into the bathroom washbasin and sprinkled
a few layers of Ajax powder into the porcelain bowl. As I reached for the
Domestos, my pulse accelerated with the excitement of discovery. I removed the
red cap (the child-proof variety had yet to be invented), dispensed a few
generous splashes of the viscous liquid onto the powder in the washbasin, and
leant over to observe.

At first nothing happened and I recall feeling a sense of
anticlimax. But then the mixture started to hiss, spit and bubble, while
emitting a vapour which spiralled upwards towards my overhanging nostrils. The
initial snort knocked me backwards, and I had to steady myself on the side of
the bath. The bathroom filled with a dense fog. My legs crumpled and my
breathing became laboured. In a daze, I crawled out of the bathroom on my hands
and knees to reach safety.

Subsequently, I learnt that the green-white vapour was
chlorine, one of the first poisonous gases to be used in warfare. My ad-hoc
chemistry experiment had inadvertently transformed the family bathroom into a
trench in the midst of the battle of Ypres in 1914.

By the time my parents returned, the chemical reaction had
fizzled out. They said they could detect a stale smell throughout the house and
accused me of smoking. I claimed that one of our neighbours had been burning
rubbish in their garden and that this must be the source of the pong. They
seemed to believe me; after all, it was a more plausible tale than the idea of
some lunatic mixing toilet cleaners in the bathroom washbasin!

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Sometimes I find I get to thinking of the past. Reflecting
on my boyhood, it is astounding that I, or my sibling, survived into our
teenage years, yet alone middle age.

My infancy was littered with stupid deeds, too numerous to
list in their entirety. But a few remain at the forefront of my memory, not
least because each could have led to a fatality. Like the time I nearly killed
my brother.

“I wonder if I could fit inside that suitcase,” said Tony,
as we both lay on the floor in our parents’ bedroom one rainy afternoon,
wrestling with boredom.

Tony is my older brother, five years my senior, and (on the
evidence of this story) just as dumb as me – perhaps stupidity is in the genes!
The “can we fit in a suitcase” game seemed appealing to my five-year-old mind,
so I squealed with enthusiasm at the prospect and instantly rose to my feet.

“No, I’ll go first,” said my commanding big brother; I knew
from previous experience that there was no point in arguing with him. I
watched, admiringly, as Tony climbed inside the suitcase, adopted an
extra-coiled version of the foetal position, and asked me to shut the lid. “But
whatever you do, don’t lock it.”

Perhaps a child psychiatrist would today label my behaviour
as indicative of “oppositional defiant disorder,” but I often found that a
request not to carry out a specific action immediately induced an urge to do
so. I dutifully closed the suitcase.

“Told you I could do it.” The muffled sound of my brother’s
voice, seeping through the lid, was almost inaudible.

“What would happen if I pressed this metal thingy on here?”
I asked.

Fifty years on, I think my brother’s retort was,
“Nooooooo…,” but I can’t be sure, as the sounds leaking from the case seemed
distorted and breathy. Anyway, I pushed one of the two metal fasteners on the
case and it clicked into place. I immediately tried to unlock it but by my
five-year-old mind did not have the wherewithal to realize that, to achieve
this aim, I would need to slide the catch outwards with my thumb. Instead, I
tugged at the fastener, but to no avail.

The indistinct sounds from inside the case rose an octave,
and were accompanied by repeated knocking noises. I think I recall
hearing “I can’t breathe” and whimpers that seemed to originate from miles away
but were, in retrospect, coming from the locked valise in front of me. I tried
lifting the unlocked end of the lid, and wafting my hand under its lip while
repeating, “Have some air,” but the panicky cries from inside suggested my
actions were not having the desired effect.

When my brother could no longer be heard, I ran downstairs
to find mum who was washing clothes in the kitchen.

“I think Tony’s dead,” I said, standing guiltily in the
doorway. Mum sped upstairs, immediately recognized what had happened – as mum’s
do – and flicked the suitcase catch to release my brother. As he gingerly got
to his feet, I recall his ashen features. Copious amounts of sweat and tears
rolled down his cheeks, and he was panting in a way that reminded me of how our
dog behaved after a long walk on a sultry day.

But mum seemed unfazed, as if her heroics were all part of a
typical day – perhaps they were. “Keep out of the suitcases,” she said,
nonchalantly, as she returned to her dolly tub and mangle (wringer).

As for Tony, he continues to have a fear about confined
spaces; strange that!

Wednesday, 15 October 2014

I recently celebrated my 56th birthday. Maybe
“celebrate” is the wrong word; once you reach a certain age, the central
function of birthdays is to act as a reminder that you are another year closer
to oblivion.

Throughout my life, I’ve never attached much significance to birthday cards, sending or receiving. On the occasion of my 56th,
three of them landed on my doormat and it later struck me how their content
seemed to capture – albeit in an offbeat kind of way - the essence of my
current situation.

Courtesy of David
Castillo Dominici at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Card number 1 was from my 20-year-old daughter. The envelope
was addressed, “To the old man”. Emblazoned on the front of the card was,
“Happy 60th birthday”. I suspect she has always viewed me as her
“old” dad since she popped into this world two decades ago. And at least she
spared me the “old git” jibe that has decorated some of her previous
communications.

Card number 2 was from my parents, both now in their
mid-80s. The picture consisted of a bright red racing car, the sort of card you
might send to an 18-year-old boy-racer shortly after he’d passed his driving
test. The age-inappropriateness of the birthday greeting indicated that they
still view me as their youngest child, their baby, despite the fact that I’m
not far away from drawing an old-age pension.

Card number 3 was from my wife. The verse within was
beautiful, proclaiming her unstinting love for me over the 33 years we’ve been
together. Reading it moistened my eyes. That was until I noticed that the front
of the card read, “Happy anniversary to my wonderful husband”. She had
purchased the card on the day we had been out together in Manchester city
centre, wining and dining, leaving me in the pub while she nipped across the
road to the card shop; a combination of moderate alcohol intoxication and long-sightedness
had led to the error.

My 23-year old son didn’t send a card. When he
(coincidentally) called round later in the day,he confessed that he
had forgotten it was my birthday. “Happy birthday, paps”, he said, as way of
atonement when I reminded him. “Are you going to treat me to a couple of
pints?”

On the night of my birthday, just prior to switching off the
lights, I gazed at my three cards on the shelf above the fireplace. In an
inspirational instant it struck me how love can be expressed in a multitude of
ways. I smiled, turned and went to bed. I slept well.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

During infancy, my central concerns focused on the risk of
humiliation at the hands of my school teachers, some of whom deployed
bare-bottom spanking in front of the whole class as a punishment; even at the
tender age of six, the prospect of botching the arithmetic test and my arse
being exposed to 30 of my peers was a disturbing prospect. By the time I
reached my teenage years my worries centred on whether I’d win the affections
of a pretty girl in my class (and perhaps glimpse her arse) rather than losing
out to one of my mates.

Early adulthood evoked anxieties about college examinations
and career prospects. Then parental responsibilities arrived, together with
ongoing fears about not having enough money to pay the bills at the end of each
month. As my affluence increased, the day-to-day worries of a responsible job,
alongside the toxic office politics, grabbed centre stage.

Now at 56, and having recently opted for early retirement
with a generous pension, what is there left for me to worry about? My
33-year-old relationship with Mrs Jones is stronger than ever. My two adult
children seem to be maturing into decent, independent human beings. There is
nothing around to disturb my mental tranquillity.

But the human psyche, in its wondrous complexity, seems to
find things to fret about even when life is good. Listed below are the top 10
worries that have pushed into my mind over the last month:

1. The inward journey
of my toe-nail

Despite regular attention from the clippers, the big-toe
nail on my left foot seems determined to get more acquainted with the
neighboring soft tissue, and is burrowing into the flesh like a scene from
Alien on reverse play.

2. My daughter
driving her Mini-Cooper

The occasional disturbing image of my precious princess travelling
at speed in such a frail shell alongside all the 4 x 4s and juggernauts, while
casually twiddling the dial on her car radio.

3. The kink in my
willy

It might have been my overly tight classic briefs, but when
I was in the shower a fortnight ago I noticed that my most precious appendage
had an almost 45-degree kink in it half way along its length. For a few nervous
moments I feared that any future intimacy would require Mrs Jones to be out of
sight and in a separate room.

4. My football club
suffering a humiliating defeat

Following promotion to the Premier League of English
football (soccer), my small-town club, Burnley, are this season competing
against giants like Manchester United and Liverpool. More than once I’ve awoken
abruptly from a nightmare as a 10th goal sails into the Burnley net.

5. Dying slowly with a
degenerative brain disease

Sadly, my mother-in-law is afflicted with senile dementia;
her faculties and personality ebbed away some time ago. I fear such a gradual,
undignified demise. When it’s time to meet my maker, I hope for a sudden death;
a massive coronary during one of my early-morning jogs would be ideal.

6. Whether my knee
joints can hold firm

Speaking of jogging … throughout my menopause-fueled pursuit of fitness, my knee and ankle joints regularly creak and threaten to
give way altogether. As such, I’m prone to catastrophic images of being
wheel-chair bound before the age of 60.

7. Self-mutilation
from trimming my bush

I increasingly like to keep my intimate vegetable patch neat
and tidy, a practice encouraged by reading that shaving makes your manhood look
bigger. But the ever increasing depths of the folds in my dangly bits means that
completion of the procedure with my Remington 3-speed trimmer is fast developing
into a bloody business; I fear one day that the process will leave the shower resembling
the iconic scene from Psycho.

8. My son’s lungs

At the age of 22, for some inexplicable reason, my son Ryan
decided to start smoking. At times I’m disturbed by the image in my head of his
sooty lungs, spluttering to inflate.

9. The passage of
time

It is unsettling how quickly time passes: I’m not far off
60; my parents are in their mid 80s, and my “kids” are both 20-something. Bereavements
are imminent. But perhaps even more unsettling are the little losses and
endings: no more family holidays; no more teaching my children to drive;
selling our house so as to down-size; and no longer in the role of my
children’s taxi driver - all life chapters that will never be repeated.

10. My hemorrhoids

Despite previous assaults with ointments and the surgeon’s
knife, my resilient little buddies continue to strive for daylight. Although
painless, the blood-stained underwear can sometimes appear as if … … But I’ll
spare you any more detail; I wouldn’t wish to worry you!

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Last Saturday afternoon, I attended a beer festival in a
neighbouring town and, as it was a pleasantly warm evening, decided to walk the
four miles home rather than order a taxi. As is often the case, my five
pints of fine cask ale had induced a mellow mood and I welcomed the opportunity
for reflection during the homeward hike.

When I reached the half-way point on my journey, around 7.30
pm, I passed an Indian restaurant. The sweet smell of chicken tikka masala
caressed my nostrils and triggered a hollow, burning sensation in the pit of my
stomach, so I decided I was in urgent need of a curry.

Despite the restaurant seeming less than half full, several
minutes elapsed before the manager greeted me.

“Good evening, sir”, he said, while glancing over my shoulder,
as if searching for my dining companion. “How can I help you?”

This struck me as a bizarre question; I resisted the urge to
say that I’d like to buy two litres of matt emulsion and hog-hair brush.

“A table for one, please.”

“Have you booked?”

“No, I’ve dropped in on the off-chance” I said, while
scanning the empty tables around us.

The manager seated me near to the exit, directly across from
the ladies’ restroom. A swift swoop of his hand cleared away one set of
utensils, leaving the undersized table set for one diner.

As I read the menu, I could not help but notice the
reactions of other customers to me, Billy-no-mates, sitting alone. Two young
women exiting the toilet seemed to stare at me as if I was a reincarnated
version of Ted Bundy. A couple entering the restaurant looked, and looked
again, as if they had observed something ghoulish. I reassured myself that I
must be succumbing to paranoia, and that it was all in my imagination.

Once the food arrived, the process of eating only amplified
my self-consciousness. The crunch as I bit into my poppadoms seemed to
reverberate around the restaurant. Despite my best efforts, my lamb bhuna
insistently dribbled out of the corner of my mouth. After all, eating out is a
social activity, where food intake should be punctuated by conversation and the
exchange of pleasantries; but without anyone opposite me, to distract and

shield, I felt exposed.

Towards the end of my meal, two children, a boy and a girl
both aged about 6, appeared in front of me. I nodded and smiled; thankfully
they smiled too. Suddenly, their mother appeared, glanced suspiciously in my
direction and, without any word or gesture of recognition to me, grasped their
hands and led them quickly away. I felt like the child-catcher from Chitty-Chitty
Bang Bang intent on snatching children off the streets of Vulgaria! I stifled
an impulse to scream, “Come along my little ones; come and get your lollipops.”

It is rare for me to eat out alone in a restaurant,
particularly in the evening. My impromptu stop at the Jewel of Bombay provided
me with empathy of how single people might feel when in the same position. I
wont be repeating the experience in a hurry; thank goodness for Mrs Jones!

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Women are wonderful. Without a daily dose of their feminine
charms men’s lives would be impoverished. But the mind of the female is a
labyrinth of baffling complexity that is beyond the comprehension of the
average fellow.

Mrs Jones has been my other half for over 33 years, so our compatibility
is beyond doubt. Nevertheless, there are a number of her day-to-day utterances
that continue to disturb me, crashing into my emotions like a brakeless
juggernaut careering down a one-in-three incline and evoking some combination
of fear, hopelessness and despondency. Here are the six comments I most dread
to hear from my wife; I suspect the bulk of the heterosexual male population
will concur.

1. “I need to get
myself a new top”

Usually stated in the prelude to a night out, this innocuous-sounding
phrase triggers expectations of imminent bankruptcy along with the immediate
urge to convey all our furniture to the pawnbroker’s shop. Of course she can’t
wear the expensive top languishing in the wardrobe as she’s worn it before and
there’s a chance that one of our friends might remember it from an earlier
social get-together. And we both know that the clothing bill will inevitably stretch
to more than the cost of a blouse; matching skirt, shoes and handbag are
absolute necessities. As I fumble on my laptop in search of our current bank
balance, I seriously consider the various income-generation initiatives needed
to fund the looming clothes-fest, including selling my body for sexual favors
on the street corner (which might raise the cost of her pantyhose if the
sailors are in town, the liquor is strong and the light is poor).

2. “What time did you
get home last night?”

You’ve been out for a couple of beers with the lads, time
flew and you arrived home a tad later than anticipated – OK, three hours later
– crept into the bedroom and slithered into bed, unnoticed, next to the
beautiful, snoring wife. Or so you thought. Her question belies the idea that
she is ignorant of the previous night’s arrival time. She knows what time you
got home and disapproves. Her question is a test to determine whether you will
tell the truth. There’s no option but to come clean: plead guilty and hope for
a less severe sentence – perhaps a disapproving glare rather than hours of the
silent treatment and a suspension of sexual cooperation.

3. “Are these
trousers a bit too tight?”

Oh God, please don’t ask me! This puts men in a classic
catch-22 situation. Any affirmative response ignites the fireworks of
indignation: “Are you saying I’m fat?” While any attempts at reassurance, that
the trousers don’t look tight at all, is instantly dismissed: “You know
nothing; I don’t know why I bother asking you.” The optimal strategy is to
pretend that you haven’t heard the question, and remain silent behind the
newspaper.

This is female code to inform you to cancel all further
engagements for the next six months as throughout this period, with the exception
of toilet breaks and an occasional micro sleep, you will labor with paint brush
in hand splashing matt emulsion on an expanse of walls and ceilings. Once the
upstairs rooms have been decorated they will, by comparison, starkly indicate
that the downstairs rooms also require some attention. To add to the pain, the
bank balance will probably take a further hit when she decides that new
furniture is a must in order to complement the new color scheme. And as the
fireplace is “so old fashioned”, brace yourself for major house surgery.

5. “Can we have a
quick look around the outdoor market?”

Outdoor markets are how I imagine Satan’s garden to be:
grubby, noisy and inhabited by a raft of ex-convicts trying to sell you crap.
But my lady loves “pottering” around them. And her utterance is not a question;
it is a statement of intent. My expectation had been to nip to the book shop in
town and then find a cosy restaurant for a slurp of wine and a chicken fajita.
Instead, she spends the next 2 hours rooting through the junk on each stall
while I walk three yards behind her, cursing under my breath, as I bob and
weave to avoid being shunted by the multitude of prams and motorized
wheelchairs.

6. “First, I need to
wash my hair”

Courtesy of Vladoat FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The idea had been for us both to pop out, on impulse, to
enjoy a couple of drinks at the local tavern. Of course, washing hair in this
context does not solely mean washing hair, but includes: achieving the correct
arrangement of towels; applying shampoo and rubbing to achieve a lather;
rinsing with clean water; applying shampoo again; lathering again; rinsing
again; applying conditioner; rinsing again; drying off with towel; blow-drying
hair (layer by bloody layer); application of curling tongs; and faffing about
in the mirror until it “looks right”. By the time we step through the front
door I’ve grown a beard and seem to have aged ten years.

There you have it; six things no man (or at least no grumpy,
middle-aged man) ever wants to hear from his lady. So come on girls, give your
guy a break. Pledge to not use any of these statements (or derivatives thereof)
for the next 12 months. You know you can do it.

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

As I proceed through the sixth decade of my life, I’ve got
to thinking more and more about my willy.

Courtesy of AmbroFreeDigitalPhotos.net

I’ve tried to recall the first time I contemplated my most
valuable organ. One contender is an early memory of when my father announced at
a family gathering that, within days of my birth, when my naked baby-body was
held aloft for inspection, uncle Ronnie gasped and said, “Bloody hell, he’s
well hung; that boy will never be the first out of the shower!”

I was definitely aware of my dangly bits at six years old
when our teacher insisted that her pupils, comprising both boys and girls,
change into their physical education gear
in the classroom before proceeding to the gym. "Underpants and knickers
must be removed” Mrs Fenwick would shout. Giggly and nervous, we all used our
desks as shields as we shed our school uniforms and wriggled into our PE kits.
I still recall the awkwardness at the prospect of a girl (God forbid!)
glimpsing my willy while, at the same time, harbouring a stirring curiosity
about the secrets residing under the desk of the blond girl sitting in front of
me.

Speaking of PE, it was during one such session three years
later that I learned about the ecstasy my willy could deliver. Half way up the
climbing rope, my legs wrapped tightly around that rough, braided helix, a
wondrous sensation spread from my loins.
Eyes closed in rapture and, with chin crumpled against the rope, I hung
there for as long as I dared, resembling a dog on heat humping its owner’s leg.

Then I entered the self-abuse phase. Between the ages of 12
and 14 my willy got more hand-hammer than a mechanic’s workbench. In my
imagination I humped every girl in class, one by one on consecutive nights,
even the big lass with yellow teeth and bad breath (although that one
necessitated a southerly approach).

As an adult my willy seems to constantly demand attention,
and I think about him every day. After showering I inspect him in the mirror,
from several angles. I’ll be forever grateful to him for delivering the seeds
that grew into my two beautiful children. In contrast, we’ve shared life’s most
painful moments; the time I was struck full in the cockpit by a high-velocity
cricket ball is particularly salient, as is the occasion I snagged my foreskin
in the zip of my Levi jeans – I never went commando again after that mishap.

Apparently, three quarters of all men believe their willies
to be smaller than average. I’m one of them. I soothe myself with platitudes.
Size doesn’t matter, as the lady’s tingly bits are on the outside. And, of
course, your own always looks smaller in comparison to others as you only ever
view it from above. Plus, not forgetting the maxim that sex is 90% in the mind
and 10% friction, so physicality doesn’t contribute significantly to carnal
satisfaction. Am I convinced? No, not at all. So when I stand in front of the mirror
my first wish to any fairy godmother that might be brave enough to stray into
my bathroom would be to grant me the todger of a Viagra-fuelled donkey.

But I shouldn’t speak too harshly about my most valued
appendage. On most occasions he has successfully stood to attention, proud and
dandy, as and when required. I forgive him for the occasions when, like a balloon
without helium, it has refused to rise, most notably with a cougar in 1978 -
but she did possess talons for fingernails and was carefree about which bits of
me she scrunched.

It might not be the biggest, but it’s mine. And although it
sometimes seems to possess a mind of its own, inflating at inopportune moments - the vibrations associated with an internal combustion engine being a potent catalyst, resulting in some interesting moments on public transport - my willy and I have been intimately connected for 55 years. Barring any
catastrophic accidents, it will be a partnership that will endure until I die,
and that’s something to cherish.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014

months later my father almost died. So around the time that my child
instigated the final phase of his transition to full independence, I nearly
lost the man who, for my 55 years of existence, has admirably performed the
position of male role-model. It was almost as if Life had decided upon a quid
pro quo: if one young man is on the cusp of full autonomy, it is time for one
old man to depart.

My 83-year-old dad had been suffering abdominal pain for a
few days. Typically a fit and active man who walks his boisterous golden
retriever three times per day, when I called round on one of my weekly visits
it was sobering to discover that his discomfort had rendered him almost
incapable of leaving his bed. Why hadn’t you called me earlier, or (even
better) rang for an ambulance, I asked. We didn’t want to make a fuss, my dad
and mother replied.

I helped dad into my car and drove straight to the Urgent
Care department of our local hospital. During the journey he insisted on
telling me the whereabouts of his will and testament – apparently in the bottom
drawer of his dining room cabinet, in a green cardboard folder – and asked if I
could “keep an eye on” mum (his wife for the last 62 years) should anything
happen to him. I smiled and urged him not to be so bloody morbid, while
wondering whether the old fella had some sort of intuition that his demise was
imminent.

I booked him into Urgent Care, asked the receptionist for a
vomit bowl (dad was retching by this time), and emphasized that I believed my
father’s condition to be a medical emergency. She instructed us to sit in the
waiting area along with about two-dozen other patients, most of whom seemed to
be suffering cuts and sprains. Two minutes later my father lost consciousness
and slumped across me. Six nurses descended upon us from all directions, lifted
my father onto a trolley and rushed him into the resuscitation area; there is
nothing more effective than a dramatic collapse to propel one into pole
position in a hospital waiting room.

Throughout the afternoon his condition oscillated between
apparent improvement and episodes of mental confusion. Various tests and x-rays
revealed an obstruction in his bowel; surgery for cancer several years earlier
had left scars (“adhesions”) which had caused his intestine to twist like a
balloon and cause a complete blockage.

By 8.30 pm, the medical specialists decided they would have
to operate immediately. Although not explicitly stated, the indications were
that we should prepare for his demise: the senior consultant surgeon was called
to perform the operation; she insisted on speaking to me and mum beforehand to
emphasize the seriousness of the situation; and we were led to the Faith Room
to await the outcome of what they anticipated to be a three-hour procedure.

Alone in the Faith Room, mum and I sat in front of a broad
bare window, allowing a view of both the lights of the nearby town on one side,
and the sun sinking below the bleak Lancashire hills on the other. At first, we
did not speak. I stared into the gloom outside, striving to comprehend the
prospect of losing my dad, while (I suspect) mum quietly prayed to her God.

I remembered that I had not updated my only sibling about
our father’s deterioration, so I rang him on my mobile and outlined the events
of the day.

“I think we might lose him, Tony” I said at last, tears escaping for the first time at my explicit acknowledgment of the
likely outcome.

When I returned to sit with my mum the quality of our
togetherness seemed to have changed following my acceptance of the possibility
of the big man’s death. We talked with a depth of familiarity only close family
members can share. We laughed together as we reminded each other of family
holidays, including the time he insisted on carrying both huge suitcases into
the hotel only to become wedged in the swing- doors. We reflected on some of
his foibles – how he doted on his dogs, his unintentional heavy-handedness with
his grandchildren when wrestling with them on the carpet, and his habit of
grasping stinging nettles with his bare hands to eject them from his garden –
as we shared an unfamiliar intimacy, I wondered why mum and I didn’t make time
to share this closeness more often.

***

My father survived. The bowel operation was a success and,
after four weeks in hospital (two in intensive care) he was discharged home on
the 12th May. Ten weeks later he continues to improve, although he
remains 30-pounds lighter than his pre-operative weight and his mobility is
currently restricted to short, tentative walks with his dog!

During the crisis I glimpsed the gut-wrenching prospect of
losing my dad, the unique quality of love that binds family members, and the
circle of life whereby our children mature into full adulthood while our
parents edge ever nearer to oblivion. Intriguingly, my visits to mum and dad
have now increased to twice per week.

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

At 55, I am meandering into the stage of life where the
finishing post is beckoning on the horizon, hopefully some distance away but
definitely within view. As I shuffle ever closer to oblivion, there is growing
awareness of events that might catapult me to the end point ahead of the older
runners in front of me. One such issue relates to the prospect of a serious
illness.

I’ve been aware of the two brownish lumps on my skin for at
least three years; in all likelihood these moles will have been my companions
for much, much longer but I’ve paid no attention to them. But recently I’ve
been submitting them to daily inspections in the mirror. The larger one is about one
centimetre in diameter, located on the side of my face. The other is narrower
but slightly raised, bravely lurking among the undergrowth of my abdominal
hair.

Armed with the partial knowledge accrued from Google
searches for “melanoma” and “skin cancer”, I’d detected ominous signs that both
my blemishes were two-tone and the one on my gut had a crusty top, with a blood
droplets oozing from beneath it. I decided to get them checked out.

Having not visited my local doctor for several years, I was
initially impressed to find that he had apparently embraced the technological
age. I booked an early appointment online and, when I arrived at his surgery, I
registered my presence via the touch-screen, thereby helpfully avoiding any
interaction with the medical receptionists (or “bulldogs” as they are known
locally). Within minutes, “MR BRYAN JONES” flashed up on the big screen,
instructing me to make my way to the doctor’s consulting room.

I knocked and entered. The doc, a mountain of a man with
chunky spectacles, hands the size of frying pans, and an enormous belly
straining at the lower buttons of his polyester white shirt, did not look up,
his eyes (magnified three-fold) remaining fixed on his computer screen.

“What can I do for you, Mr Jones” he asked, head still
bowed, his voice betraying the boredom of routine medical practice.

“I’ve a couple of skin aberrations I’d like you to check.”
(I always use big words when speaking to doctors to try and counter feelings of
inferiority).

The description of my complaint seemed to ignite his
interest. "Let me have a look” he said, springing to his feet and prising
under-sized latex gloves over his bulbous fingers.

I pointed out the location of the moles. His eyes flitted
between my face and my exposed belly, as if he couldn’t quite decide which
interloper to confront first. He then swooped to inspect my abdominal savannah
and prodded it with his forefinger.

“That’s just a pimple” he said, his voice tinged with
disappointment. He then proceeded to pinch the mole between his thumb and digit
and, in one swift movement, ripped off the crusty scab.

I whimpered, like a whipped puppy.

“Did it hurt?” he asked.

“A tad.”

“It’s bleeding a bit” said the doc, apparently surprised,
“I’ll cauterize it with silver nitrate.”

That must be a sophisticated medical procedure, I thought. Wrong!
The doctor pulled out an implement that resembled a large spent match and then
pressed the hot, blackened end into my pimple. The bleeding stopped, the skin
around darkened with a ragged sooty deposit.

“As for the one on your face, I’ll need to remove that under
local anaesthetic in my minor surgery clinic and send a bit off for analysis.
I’ll book you in.”

Subsequently, I’ve fantasised about my doctor’s minor
surgery technique. I’m tormented by a recurring image of a hatchet-wielding
crack-addict in an abattoir. I maybe a 55-year-old hypochondriac but I’m still
vain; the mutilation of my Richard- Gere, baby-face features is not a welcome
prospect. I think I’ll risk the cancer.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

I admired you from afar. Your loveliness, splendor, inner
confidence all nourished me as I longed, unnoticed, from an inferior point in
the room. Your proximity froze my breath, evoked an urge to swallow and
rendered me wordless. Through the years, we met - again and again – albeit briefly;
as acquaintances, as colleagues, as two among many, when we’d nod, smile, and
I’d perform, again the role of indifferent bystander.

I played it safe, remained aloof, pride shielding me from the savage slash of rejection.

Three decades on, we occasionally meet and we nod and smile.
Two contented people with separate lives, shared with loving partners. Two
people harboring a plethora of life’s indentations – joys, achievements,
losses, failures – that will forever remain hidden from the other. But tell me, what if I’d asked? What if I’d
risked? What if I’d plunged in and expressed my yearning?

Friday, 13 June 2014

As I move through middle age, I reminisce more and more
about my schooldays. One salient memory involves a terrifying science teacher
and a gaggle of semi-illiterate chemistry students

It was spring 1972, and examinations were looming; important
ones that could determine our academic futures. Sitting in the chemistry laboratory
along with my 14-year-old school mates – almost all boys (it was an age when
girls rarely studied science subjects) – I awaited the arrival of Mr Webster,
the head of the science department.

Mr Webster terrified any pupil who ventured within 50 yards
of him. He didn’t need to shout; one look sufficed to instil bowel-blasting dread
in even the bravest of teenage students. So when he entered the classroom at
9.00 am sharp on that sunny April morning, the chatter amongst us instantly
ceased. He strode to his desk, turned to face us, and his laser-gaze scanned
the arc of potential victims who were all head bowed, avoiding his stare.
Suffocating silence lay over the room like a huge polythene blanket. It must
have been 30 seconds before Mr Webster spoke; it felt much longer.

“Procrastination”

Nobody responded. All one could hear was the faint whistling
of Bunsen burners from the adjacent laboratory

Mr Webster grimaced, grabbed his white chalk, turned to the
blackboard and wrote:

PROCRASTINATION

He turned to face his perplexed class, pointed at the board
and asked, “Anyone care to comment?”

I later realized that the point he was trying to make
related to our lack of revision for the imminent examinations, and how we were
all putting off until tomorrow the work we should have been doing today. But,
at the time, none of us understood what the word meant; we were all 14-year-old
scientists, not English scholars! I sneaked a peep inside my chemistry textbook
to see if the definition of procrastination lay in the same chapter as the one
describing distillation, evaporation and condensation, but to no avail. For one
terrible moment I wondered whether he was privy to our solitary night time practices,
and had concluded that our daily “cranking the shank” was impairing eye-sight
to an extent that interfered with our ability to name the elements in the
periodic table.

Frustrated by our lack of comprehension, Mr Webster threw the chalk onto the table, commanded us to "look the word up in a dictionary," and walked out of the classroom, leaving us teacher-less for the remainder of the session. He was a strange, strange man.

Thursday, 22 May 2014

Contrary to popular female perception, we men are sensitive
creatures. Beneath those steely exteriors cower vulnerable boys, scanning their
environments for morsels of evidence that we are valued. Our partners provide
the richest, and most potent source, of information to shape our conclusions as
to whether we are wimps or alpha males.

So ladies (at least those involved in heterosexual
relationships) you have the power. One utterance from those glossy lips can
energize or destroy the man in your life. A casual comment can deflate your mate
into an impotent quivering piece of blubber, or transform him into a strutting,
testosterone-fuelled superhero.

As I enter middle age, and beyond, I’ve been reflecting on
four decades of interactions with women and can now deliver the definitive tutorial,
entitled, “What to say, and what not to
say, to your man”.

The “sweet” comment, much used by the fairer of the species,
is sickly and patronising; the kind of thing one might say to a 2-year-old
niece when she offers you a suck of her lollipop. In contrast, telling your man
he’s “the best” taps into his primal need to be head of the pack, reassuring
him that (at least in the eyes of his partner) he is number one and will later
have his pick of the on-heat females (which, of course, will be you).

Scenario 2: Showing
the family photograph album to your offspring.

DEFLATE response: “Your dad used to be a good-looking man.”

BOOST response: “Your dad’s still a good-looking man.”

OK, the hair might be greyer, the body less toned, but the
first response might as well scream “useless has-been”. Being told that you
were once good-looking, but no longer are, is more damaging to the tender ego
of the male than accepting that one has always been battered with the ugly
stick. Alternatively, we vanity-bloated men love to believe we are still
attractive to the female form, albeit in a more sophisticated way. The boost
response will typically lead to a puffing up of the male plumage, involving chest
expansion, an erect back and a bounce in the stride.

BOOST response: “I’ll have to keep an eye on you with all
these young women sniffing around.”

Ladies, we know that the chances of women lusting after
blokes two decades their senior are as likely as their developing an aversion
for chocolate. But men like to delude themselves that at least one or two
fillies within the vicinity just might be thinking, “wow, that man is
triggering spasms in my lady bits.” Deny us this fantasy and we’d stop
showering and never change our underwear.

Scenario 4: Man
undressing in aroused state in anticipation of rumpy-pumpy, and having just
unleashed his front-room furniture.

DEFLATE response: “Ah, how cute!”

BOOST response: “Be
gentle with me.”

Men are obsessed with the size of their willies, and subject
them to frequent inspections in front of the mirror (or is that just me?).
Things described as cute tend to be small, so the deflate comment will activate
the man’s doubts about the adequacy of his nadger, inevitably impairing his
sexual performance. In contrast, the boost response implies that his weapon is
at risk of causing damage, thereby promoting virility and confidence in his
ability to satisfy.

So there you have it, the definitive guide to how men tick.
Ladies, the power is with you; use it wisely.

*** Personal note: Due to my father’s illness, over the last
few weeks I’ve not maintained my usual level of activity in the blogosphere. At
the time of writing, my father seems to be improving and, tomorrow, I set off
on a 15-night Scandinavian cruise (yippee!). So I expect my usual input to
blogging will resume from around the middle of June.

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Relationships evolve over time. Thirty-three years ago, the
future Mrs Jones and I met in a social club at the hospital where we both
worked. Like any couple in the early stages of the mating ritual, we were each
on our best behaviour: no farting in front of each other; swearing restricted
to exclamations; and bowel references were no more graphic than the occasional mention
of an ‘upset stomach’.

Nowadays we are less inhibited. I share the following
scenarios as illustration:

Mrs
Jones returns home from work and enters the living room where I’m
tip-tapping away on my laptop. My attention is drawn to the twitching of
her nostrils. She looks directly at me, accusingly, and asks, ‘Have you
shit?’

Together
on the settee, watching television.

‘I wish you’d stop fidgeting’ I
say.

‘I can’t’ she says.

‘Why, what’s the problem?’

‘My arse is stinging like a wasp
with a cob on.’

But last week, while we were sitting at the table eating our
evening meal, Mrs Jones made a comment that indicated to me how three decades
of co-habitation had transformed the nature of our relationship. The rhythmic
clicking of stainless steel utensils on ceramic plates, mixed with the
occasional slurping of wine, were interrupted by the never-to-be-forgotten
comment:

Wednesday, 2 April 2014

My status in the blogosphere must be rising! Today, I'm thrilled to announce that I am guesting over at Menopausal Mother, one of the many rib-ticklingly funny homes for the work of the multi-talented Marcia Kester Doyle.

Marcia is my blogging soul-mate who hilariously captures the essence of the ageing process from a female perspective - or as she describes it, 'The good, the bad and the ugly side of menopausal mayhem'. Marcia is also a staff writer at In The Powder Room and a contributing author to What The Flicka. She wins awards for fun, her blog recently beating all-comers to win the Top Hilariously Funny Blog VoiceBoks 2014. Her work has also been featured on numerous sites, including: Scary Mommy; Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop; Suburbia Interrupted; Mamapedia, Midlife Boulevard and Aiming Low. If you are not familiar with her work, I urge you to drop in on one of her blogs and see for yourself.

My guest post is highlighting the (albeit few) advantages of being 55. Please come over and tell me what you think. The link is:

Wednesday, 12 March 2014

For the first time in my blogging career, I'm thrilled to announce that I've been asked to guest-post. (I know, some of you guys do it every other week, but this is virgin territory for me).

The invite has come from a giant of the blogging world, non other than Starr Bryson at The Insomniacs Dream. The multi-talented Starr is wonderfully versatile and can write on any topic from humor to erotica to serious stuff; she can inform, arouse, offend or tickle, depending upon which mood she is in. So pop over there and read her stuff on http://www.theinsomniacsdream.com/ You will not be disappointed.

My guest post recounts a tale from when I worked as a sex therapist - now that surprised you, didn't it - many years ago in the pre-Viagra days. Please pop over (via the link below) and give it some attention and comment. Otherwise, Starr will not be happy and, quite frankly, I'm scared of her!

Saturday, 1 February 2014

As I zipped up my trousers, my physician peeled off his
latex gloves. ‘In light of your age, I’ll refer you to urology for tests’ he
said. We can’t be too careful.’

It was 2006, and my 48-year-old right testicle had begun to
ache several weeks earlier while watching a TV program about how men are prone
to neglect their health, particularly if the problem relates to their dangly
bits. I clung to benign explanations for the pain: perhaps my budgie-smugglers
were too tight, or maybe I had unknowingly crushed the sensitive orb when I
crossed my legs?

When the pain persisted, my hypochondriacal curiosity
prompted me to enter ‘testicular cancer’ into the search engine. Reading the
symptoms – a lump in part of one
testicle, a dull ache, or a heavy scrotum – triggered several days of
cupping, prodding and mirror-gazing that only aggravated my pain. I relented
and visited my doctor who in turn was now propelling me towards the specialist.

Three weeks later I am sitting in the urology waiting room
at the local hospital, fearing the worst, and visualizing malignant cells
multiplying and stomping, jackbooted, into the neighbouring testicular tissue
like the Nazi invasion of Poland.

‘Mr. Jones, please?’

I turn to see an attractive young woman in a white coat
smiling, and beckoning me to follow her. She has sallow skin and ebony hair, tied
back in a bob. I follow her like a faithful puppy-dog to the consulting room,
feeling a rising sense of unease in anticipation of my indecent exposure.

Once inside, after exploring the history of my problem, she rises
from her chair, moves a couple of yards away from me, motions me to also stand,
and asks me to let her ‘have a look’. I lower my denims and briefs to allow the
front-room furniture to swing fee. Standing there exposed from waist to knee, I
fidget, not knowing where to put my hands. She peers at my genitalia, ‘to check
for symmetry’ – apparently, observing whether my right ball is hovering at a
different altitude to the other. Disturbingly, as she scrutinizes, she purses
her lips and tilts her head. I conjure up lusty thoughts to try and inflate the
pipe-work a bit but, alas, all in vain; in the cold consulting room my meat and
veg resemble Bob Cratchit’s turkey, the last one in the shop.

Courtesy of hyena realityFreeDigitalPhotos.net

While I remain standing, she approaches, squats before me
and digs her finger into the suspect testicle.

‘Does that hurt?’ she asks.

I yelp, providing her with an answer. She continues the
examination by manipulating each ball between her thumb and forefinger, and cupping
each in the palm of her hand (presumably checking for the diagnostic heaviness
– if not, I’d been the victim of sexual assault). After returning to her full
height she instructs me to lie on the bed. Any embryonic ember of sexual
excitement is immediately quenched by the comic image in my head of my shuffling
across the room, hairy arse on view, trousers around knees, like a floundering
contestant in a sack race.

A male colleague with cold hands joins us and more prodding
ensues. At the end of the examination I’m told that my testicles feel ‘totally
normal’ but, in light of my age, they will arrange for me to return to hospital
for an ultra scan ‘just to be on the safe side.’

Two weeks on, I am laying on a bed in the X-Ray Department,
ubiquitous blue gown raised to my hips, while a black man, with hands the size
of pit shovels, moves a wand-like object three inches from my gonads as if
searching for precious metal. His verdict: ‘apart from a slight,
non-significant aberration in the right testicle, they appear perfectly
normal.’ He also tells me that the pain is probably due to ‘post-vasectomy pain
syndrome,’ a discomfort experienced by one-in-three men years after the
operation – a fact denied to me when I had the snip a decade earlier.

.

‘If this was your testicle, would you choose to undergo any
further investigation?’ I asked.

‘No,’ the radiographer replied, ‘I’d leave it well alone.’

‘That’s good enough for me,’ I said while rising from the
bed, thoroughly reassured.

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

Last Saturday I attended a football (soccer) match with my
82-year-old father. I remain unsure as to the trigger – maybe a gesture or a
comment –but while sitting together in the main stand, I relived an incident
from almost half a century ago when my gentle, fair-minded dad evoked the wrath
of the local police force.

On a Saturday afternoon forty-seven years ago, the rain
pummelled the window pane as I perched on the sill waiting for my dad’s return
from work. The previous evening he had suggested we attend a football game and
now, barely an hour prior to kick-off, he had yet to arrive.

My dad laboured all week in the engineering factory at the
end of our road. To boost his take-home pay, he would often work Saturday
mornings as well so as to benefit from the time-and-a-half hourly pay rate. When
he clocked off at 12 noon he and his work mates would head for the
Rose-and-Crown pub to imbibe a ‘bit of throat lubricant’. As I loitered at the
window at 2.00 pm on this watery Saturday afternoon, I visualised him standing
at the bar, tankard in hand, oblivious to his commitment to escort his
8-year-old son to the football.

His invite to attend a game together had startled me. Burnley,
the team we (and several generations of Jones) supported were playing 250 miles
away on the south coast, so we wouldn’t entertain travelling on such a
pilgrimage. It would have to be a visit to our local (and bitterest) rival
Blackburn Rovers. Nor did I usually go to the football with my dad, my
companions being either my older brother or my uncle. Maybe my dad’s invitation
had been fuelled by guilt at his perceived failure to fulfil his fatherly
duties.

At 2.15 a car pulled up outside; my dad had persuaded a work
mate to drop us at the ground. Climbing into the back seat of the Ford Corsair,
I caught a whiff of alcohol, thereby confirming my earlier hunch of their
pre-match stop at the Rose-and-Crown. As we queued to enter the ground of our
loathed adversary, torrential rain lashed into our faces. My dad handed over
his hard-earned cash at the turnstile and we found our seats in the stand. The
pitch itself, clad in a collage of water-pools of various shapes and sizes, appeared
unplayable. Yet at 3.00 pm the referee blew his whistle to start the proceedings.
At 3.03 pm he blew it again to abandon the game due to the water-logged pitch.

My dad, with me clinging to his arm, strode immediately to
the ticket office to seek a refund of his money only to be informed that, as
the match had started, no reimbursement would be given. An agitated crowd
gathered outside the ticket office, demanding that the directors of the club
leave their plush boardroom and explain why they can’t have their money back.

My father is a peaceful man, but on that day he transformed.
Maybe due to alcohol- powered disinhibition. Or the frustration of a premature
abortion of a rare football trip with his son. Or the fact that heinous
Blackburn was responsible for the gross injustice. Whatever the reason, maybe a
combination of them all, my dad (together with his clinging 8-year-old son)
gravitated to the front of the baying mob.

A few minutes later
the police arrived. ‘Move along now sir, you’re causing an obstruction’

‘I’m going nowhere until I get my money back’ said my dad.

The officer put a guiding arm on my dad’s shoulder. ‘Come,
come now; you don’t want to set your lad a bad example, do you?’

Patronising comments now an additional factor in the already
incendiary mix, dad shoved the policeman away. The crowd, some yards further
back, cheered at his defiance, thereby providing further encouragement to
continue with what was, by now, a one man protest.

The police superintendent appeared. ‘Move on or you will be
arrested.’

My dad leaned in towards the superintendent, wagged a finger
at the stripes on his uniform and said, ‘Just because you’ve got that bird crap
on your shoulder doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.’

But it did. The police yanked my dad (together with me, his
appendage) into the back of the police car. He avoided a night in the cells (probably
due to the presence of a minor) but received a fine of £10 for ‘disturbing the
peace’.

On the bus journey home, my father pleaded with me not to
tell my mother (who would have, no doubt, castrated him for his hooliganism). A
loyal son, I didn’t grass him up; well, at least not until a decade later! And now, almost fifty years on, I’m
announcing his aberration to the world.